Ordinary
by WinterRepublic
Summary: You wish you were just an ordinary boy, and you dream sometimes... SLASH:LVHP


**Disclaimer:** If JKR knew what I was doing with her characters, she'd smash my laptop and run over it thousands of times with a car before pouring tea all over it and laughing as it smoked in its untimely demise..

**Title:** Ordinary**  
Beta:** N/A**  
Rating:** It's rated the way it is, because Harry can also be interpreted as a minor by the way its been written, or so I've been told. I feel kinda nutters for putting a M/M rating on it when it's already under a slash section... but I don't wana be hunted down by the Net-Kappas.**  
Art:** N/A**  
Other:** Um... drugs were not abused in the writing of this?

Can you imagine?

I sure as hell can. Of course, I got to see it first hand, but I'll tell you about it. A boy who wished to be ordinary. So he dreamed sometimes.

Dreaming.

Only dreaming.

Nothing more.

When it came right down to it... you could no longer recognize if he was dreaming anymore.

Soft raven hair running through my fingers, each silky strand tracing patterns in my hand as they slip through my grasp. The soft tickle of the unruly locks brushing against my thighs. The warmth of his mouth cradling me; worshiping me. The shining emerald orbs closed in concentration, the shadows and pain of never being fading away as he lets himself go. As if I was the only thing in his world at the moment, he opens his eyes to me, their innocence shining brightly; preserved only by a thread.

It's enough to make grown men cry.

Not that he'd be off doing any of these things, mind you. He's off being a hero. Heroes don't do anything as human as fucking their friends - well known or not - or their enemies. Or anything for that matter. No, their figureheads, too inhuman and out of the ordinary to be anything but. Heroes; Figureheads are good for doing what needs to be done and just being plain perfect. Anything less, and their considered useless.

Ever noticed how heroes look like they've steped out of a painting, or posing to be a statue? Do they have a school; a class for that or something? To be the perfect storybook hero. I must have slept through the offering of that class, while Hero there, looked like he got all straight A's and then went back for extra credit.

Maybe he did.

Of course, then maybe you'd be taken by him to. Too awed by the Hero to notice just how perfet he is. How his body moves in such a graceful maner that you'd believe him to be dancing, not fighting. He was never fighting. He quit a long time ago. They must be blind. Blind, or maybe a bit too convinced that he's still strung up on their strings.

Maybe he was.

I thought he was. I thought he'd foolishly play marionette and right into their hands. I thought he'd be dancing to the tune of their flute to the end. I thought he'd forever be pulled by those strings. Thought he'd end up as the greatest hero of all time and all that fairytale bullshit we're brought up to believe. The fairytales that we all look for in our lives - all our lives, only to be disappointed in the end.

Changed my mind real quick when I saw him sucking off our resident Dark Lord in the Forbidden Forest.

What was I doing there?

I couldn't tell you even if I knew myself.

Quite the picture mind you. Voldemort had managed to get his body back from the point in time that he was at the pique of his powers. Lush dark locks of wavy hair, and the phisique of a male runway model. The red eyes were the only thing that defined him as Voldemort though. I have a few assumptions that our Hero had played a big part in the body ressurection, but what's there to say? It's my word against his and you can easily tell who would win.

There was probably a reason.

Somehow, he manages to easily ensnare everyone he comes into contact with and just as easily wrap you around his finger. The Dark Lord was no different. Maybe he was, but I save my verdict for the battlefield. Their wands were lying on the ground, with the rest of their clothing. There must be quite bit of trust there to abandon their wands so. Voldemort stood erect, braced against a tree... our hero on his knees before him sucking like his life depended on this very thing. Voldemort's hands made their way into the soft raven locks of our hero. I could hear him moaing encouragement as he was licked, tasted and devoured like some perverted popsicle.

Big bad Voldie didn't last very long under that treatment. I couldn't think of a soul that could. Not even close. If a walking wet dream came in and started licking parts of your body that don't often see the light of day, wouldn't you be ready to give in and give it up after only a few minutes?

I would.

Voldemort sank down to the ground afterwards. I heard our hero hissing to him in parseltounge. I don't know what was said, but it sent shivers down my spine and the blood to pool in my nether regions. Whatever he had said, brought on a sudden turn of tables as Voldemort wrestled him to the ground. They shared a few words, whispered words, that sounded oddly like what lovers shared. Lovers? Yeah, right. They were destined to kill one another. And the Dark Lord doesn't love.

...right?

Our hero lay back on the cloak that covered the grass, and spread his legs invitingly as the Dark Lord lay himself in place. They moulded together like they were made for one another. Like a puzzle that has only two pieces...

I almost turned away.

I'd seen enough to fuel a lifetime of wet dreams. Dreams that could plague even the straightest of man and make him wonder. This was too much; no more. I didn't need anymore. I heard a few hissed words and heard Voldemort chuckle deep in his throat. He teased the pert nipples of our hero who in turn threw his head back and moaned.

I could feel my mouth go dry.

He actually moaned. Not in the way of pain or one of loss. This was an actual breathy moan that only followed a touch of pleasure. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't simply put this behind me either. This man; this boy, who is obsessively silent under pain and torture; moaned.

Their volume steadily rose, too caught up in the moment to worry about the lurking beings in the forest that could hear them. Myself included. Not that they'd bother the two most powerful wizards of our time anyway.

I guess that moan was said enough for the Dark Lord as he slipped the first of his fingers into the sacred area of our hero. Said hero arched his back both chests coming into contact, another moan forcing it's way past his lips.

Voldemort must have liked the sound of those moans because he continued to whiser words of encouragement to our leader. Our hero. I don't know how I managed not to reach down a relieve myself when Voldemort, after the thourough preperation, proceeded to fuck our hero into a state of pure bliss.

Maybe I didn't want to miss out on any of it because I'd plague my mind everytime after that.

Every night, it replays against my closed eyelids. The arching of the hero's back, and the pounding of Voldemort into his perfect body. Both coming to release. I can't even look at him right anymore. Everytime I see him approach me, or whenever he speaks to me, I only see that night flashing by.

I want hate him for it.

But you can't hate people like that.

Ever try to hate a hero? Your best friend? It doesn't work. You get fed up with them and even have cynical thoughts about how you can do their job better than they can... but you just can't hate them. No matter how hard you try.

It must have been one of those things they teach you in class.

Maybe it's time I went back to retake some of those classes.

Or maybe I just want to watch them again.

I still can't believe that our hero let himself go so much, letting the visage of being a hero drop, enough to be an ordinary human underneath.

When you realise that the only person to see him as a human is the enemy... then you finally realise that you've lost. You put forth the one thing that had every right to fail. To turn on you. To spit false hope in your face; to bring you to your knees in the end, spreading the dark ages being taken on as the Dark Lord's consort.

And you could never blame him for it.

Then you have to wonder: What did you do? Where had you gone wrong? What had you to lose? What was it that you lost?

Not a weapon.

Not a pawn.

Not a marionette.

Not a Hero.

Just a boy.

An ordinary boy.

**Fin**

******A/N:**

Be easy guys, please. I haven't done this in a while. I'm more prone to comics and panels right then. If I suck, then tell me to go back to my pencil and sketch pad. They are getting kinda dusty now that I think about it...

Anyway, If I do suck, I won't post anymore, bad stuff okay? I'll just go back to my beta/art job till I can sort out my writing hands again.


End file.
